


Avoir Un Coup De Foudre

by Ukthxbye



Category: Beetlejuice - All Media Types, The Addams Family (Movies)
Genre: Addams Family References, Aged-Up Character(s), Asexuality Spectrum, Awkward Dates, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Didn't Know They Were Dating, F/F, Mutual Pining, Supernatural Elements, Swords, Talk about death, Unresolved Romantic Tension, a man being terrible, adult, biromantic Wednesday Addams, pansexual Lydia Deetz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27019045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ukthxbye/pseuds/Ukthxbye
Summary: To be strange and unusual is to be alone. Two souls, each touched by darkness their whole lives in separate ways uncover new spaces of connection across death and time. Unexpected affection pursues Wednesday and Lydia and they seek a balance in their forces compelled together.
Relationships: Wednesday Addams & Lydia Deetz, Wednesday Addams/Lydia Deetz
Comments: 25
Kudos: 48





	1. Natura nihil frustra facit

Wednesday Addams didn't go to art shows and yet... the flyer postcard left hidden on a table in her favorite tea shop. A dark grey corner poking out from under a small stack of photography books. A tingle lit her spine, guiding her fingers to press down on its edge and pull it free to read.

**Le Dourleur Exquise: A study in light eked out of darkness.**

"Pretentious" she said out loud. 

"She's not really."

Her glare lifted, eyes wide in indignation as someone spoke to her.

"She's really good. Good spooky shit, but…" the new clerk shrugged as she wiped the counter absently, the rag in hand missing the dust to her right. The surviving filth calmed Wednesday when she noticed it.

" You should go, it's probably your kind of vibe. Deetz is the stepdaughter of a famous avant-garde artist and all."

Why she thought that mattered was beyond Wednesday and she spoke without taking a breath."It's the French title. It's a much too common phrase easily translated and put on pillows and hand-painted signs wanna be artists women in upstate New York purchase in shops in gentrified Brooklyn on day trips with their friends for eight times the price of material... Light out of darkness?," She sighed and huffed the breath out of her nose.

The girl stopped her useless wiping and leaned on the counter, staring as if Wednesday's stare held no weight.

"Pretentious, same as art, is subjective. Maybe look at the photo on the back before you make your decision, huh?"

The girl stepped around the counter and walked by Wednesday, sending the card almost fluttering away, but Wednesday slammed her hand down to rescue it. 

Wednesday didn't care for her at all. All the colors of soft witches blending herbs into love potions, pastels and faux grey hair in a high bun purposefully messy, with white cat hair weaved into her sweaters like a thread. She smelled of peonies and grass. It made Wednesday want to sneeze. 

The card lay warm under her hand as she raised the teapot with the other, filling the cup, squeezing a sizable amount of lemon from the wedge before lifting it from its saucer. The fine china rimmed with gold slid delicately along on her bottom lip, telling the exact temperature of its contents. A deep sip of the Darjeeling. The new girl did brew tea similar to a cottage witch though, she mused. Strong and clean, but perfect to not allow the notes overpowered. She didn't like her, but she couldn't hate her now.

The tingle returned, traveling between her fingers, wrapping like wire, tightening. She watched, half expecting a glow. But whatever it was remained in her nervous system under her skin only. "No… I think not," she murmured as she pulled the card off the table and shoved it in her bag.

The prickling eased to nothing but a memory, and she finished her tea in the blessed silence she craved.

A text conversation with her newest client. His father recently passed, leaving a whole house of antiquities to be accessed and valued. 

**Can you start today? I'd rather get this taken care of sooner than later, and I think my family name would be enough to push this to the top of your priorities.**

The name was known well enough in their area but it wasn't worth consideration. She sighed to herself. 

**For a price. I must push other client's requests aside if the amount I must access is correct.**

**How much are we talking about?**

She didn't like an insistent client. She'd cleared her schedule anyway. But he would pay for his insolence.

**Twice the price and I will be there within the hour.**

**Better be.**

She drew a hard breath through her nose, arching her neck and stretching her fingers from a fist before answering.

**Have the check ready.**

She ignored her mobile, setting it down on the table. She'd read the obituary earlier. Dead three months ago. New money, and that meant fake and foibles galore. She'd relish telling him so. 

But she reminded herself that even this sort of rich in the United States had years behind it now. They could have lucked up on something valuable. Perhaps she could acquire it on the cheap and resell it if they were particularly stupid. But first one cup of tea before leaving. The new girl returned to the counter, but Wednesday didn't give her a second look, her thoughts filling with other possibilities.

-:-

She arrived precisely within the hour to a small gated estate and was buzzed in. 

A portly man stuffed in his gray waistcoat on top of short legs huffed his way to her as she stepped from the taxi and feared he would stop too close. But he censored his advance, and with a moment to catch his breath, he offered his hand. 

She stared at it until he relinquished the idea.

"Thank you for being on time, I understand—"  
  


"The check please, Mr. Garson."

"Wait a minute… I'll need to hear what you have to say—"  
  


"Check. Then I begin my work, alone and undisturbed."

He frowned, and she continued as she held out her hand, open palmed, "I will text you if I have any questions. Understood?"

The man drew a deep breath through his nose, but reached in his pocket and laid the check in her hand.

"If you didn't come highly recommended… "

But he paused, his dark eyes squinting to slits.

She smiled, a slight and well practiced one as she folded the check and slipped it into her bag without looking.

"I'll start in the upper rooms."

And with that, she stepped around him.

Garson did not follow her, and she breathed in relief and the air of the home as she stopped through the front door.

Early 19th century, she remarked, a wide staircase before her, large rooms to her right and left. She ascended lazily, running her fingers along the banister, reaching out.

A tingle returned, though dissonant from the one earlier. 

The emotions flooded through her blood, but she'd learned to keep them compartmentalized and cataloged like her ledger.

The death so recent, so fresh. She arrived at the top and pondered the left or the right. 

She chose left as she often did, trailing her fingers along the wall, seeking something to register.

But the sensation is dull. She went to the end of the hall and started in the first room.

Taking her notebook out, her finger slid past the card earlier. Like a static charge every time.

She ignored it and focused on notes about the wardrobe before her.

-:-

"Excellent wood… but much too new" she noted out loud. Relegated to an off room as it held no value, sentimental or otherwise. Her hands felt nothing upon it, and she placed a simple value to it and moved on.

The gift honed now, she took only the minimal time needed for each object.Touch provided her the histories like microfilmed newspaper clippings she filed through with speed until a headline caught her eye. Some spoke of heartbreak, and others anger. A sensitivity her mother called it, but it varied throughout the years to something akin to a power. Possessions had their ghosts. She could see them with only a touch. 

But her mind also knew market values of objects as well, a skill learned from her distant Uncle one summer.

_"You know their worth in the markets to the owners and to buyers. You must decide if you tell the truth or if the lie is better suited," her uncle said with a slight smile._

_"Better suited for me... or for them?"_

_"Entirely your choice, highly subjective the whole matter, really. But we Addams are a charitable group of souls. Do it for the betterment of someone no matter what."_

She did not like the man she met downstairs or his texts. But perhaps there is a family member who needs something. 

-:-

The week went on and she worked, cataloging. He bothered her from time to time when she required more information, expounding on histories. But it let her know what was false. The objects told her their genuine history.

"We'll need to sell some of it, but some will go to heirs, of course. But value needs to be set."

She nods until he scurries off again. 

And she kept that card in her bag, despite every time she reached in it popped her like a wool sweater in winter. 

When she felt a similar pop when she caressed the dark carvings on an old clock in the father's opulent office, she jumped. 

She removed her hand, but timidly began the trace again. Each baroque swirls revealing new moments. Gold leaf patina-ted rough under her fingertips and she pursued the history leaking out. 

A voice and that man. The one from the obituary, dead but with a cold stiff fingers on it.

The rest of the vision lost as the son entered the room and she huffed.

"I need to leave and I need you to leave at the same time."

She sighed through her nose. "I'm still working—"

"No matter."

She stretched out once more, but his presence marred the connection, and her teeth gritted behind shut lips. 

He paused by her, looking at the clock before moving away. "Beautiful timepiece… valuable. Going to my nephew Hugh. Not that he'll do a damned thing with him."

"The history..." she whispered, reaching across the fading bridge between her fingers and the vibration from the wood. 

"Old lovers of father's from Germany gave it." He snickered as he stepped to lean against the desk, folding his arms. She sensed the thread straining in his jacket hearing inner threads snap.. "Mother hated it. That's why it's going to my nephew. Not that any of the family deserves… yeah. "

Her awareness sharp as a knife's edge and she craved to find why this clock sent fire into her skin like the flyer. But as all things do, it faded as she ran after its history in her mind. Perhaps tomorrow she can try again, she mused.

The man huffed with a grin she spied reflected in the clock's curved glass, "Letting you know I'm out of town the rest of the week so we'll just resume next week. It's Friday, after all. Consider it a bonus." His chuckle came from his throat. Coated in the awkward phylum of restlessness. 

She worked every day. That was always her contract. She'd told him so. He wanted to change it once again.

She turned to him, her stare steady where he wavered. " I wish to continue the work surely someone can—"

"Nope," he drawled out, shaking his head. "I'm the executor of the will. And I want to be present for this all. Lots to go missing after all."

Enough of niceties.

She smiled. "Odd for you to imply such a base criminal enterprise. Perhaps you're projecting?"

Her turn to cross her arms.

Confusion in the first step. Now the bare truth.

"You have stolen from your father many years, both in possessions and monies—"

He pushed up from his lean and stepped into her space. " What the hell… how the hell—"  
  


"You edited his ledgers. I saw them sprawled on the desk and having the check I know the difference in your handwritings. I'm quite good at finances. Would you like to review them?" 

His frown gave him away. "What do you want?"

In her younger days she would've made a devastating bargain. And she would have continued her assessment of him until he'd wish for the ground to swallow him whole. She could grant that for him if he wished hard enough. But she wanted access to the clock again and tempered herself. 

"I'll concede not coming here this weekend… if you will leave me to my work alone the rest of the time. And I'll ignore what I observed."

"Fine… now get out until Monday."

Her smile widened as she picked up her bag, walking past him. "I wouldn't burn those. I took photos. Perhaps hiding would serve you better."

And with that, she walked out the room and the house. 

-:-

She spent Friday at home, typing up her notes and setting prices with counter references. Tasks distracted her only so well. She thought only of the clock. 

She ignored the noises her cat produced from time to time, but he pawed at her tarantula's cage.

"Not today, Satan" she said with a hiss. 

He promptly jumped on the kitchen table and knocked over her bag. His interest immediately drawn to its spilled contents.

The card slid out the furthest and he sniffed it. 

That slick gray with those pretentious words. She hadn't touched it today, and she missed it. 

Her fingers moved to it, snatching it from under his foot, avoiding his pounce. 

The warmth rolled across her palms, duller than its original sparking. She can't continue to touch objects, her awareness acclimated.

The other side of the card still a mystery. It felt too weighted. Like the last card in a tarot reading, setting the path to certainty.

But curiosity flowed to an unavoidable measure now, and she turned it.

The clock. She traced the carving in the photo with the tip of her fingernail. Held in the hands by the dead man, flanked by a younger man, possibly mid 20s and uninteresting.

Was he asleep? _But no._

He was dead. Dead as dead could be. What was this show about? She pondered the possibilities.

She should research the artist, she thought as she glanced at the name. Lydia Deetz. Her mother mentioned Deetz once before . A frivolous piece of art Gomez bought in New York a few years ago for much too high a price, a cartoon monster head. Wednesday had informed him of such when she accessed it, but he claimed it priceless and the matter dropped. 

But this is the step daughter as the girl at the bookstore said. And a wholly different artist. 

No photo of her. Only the name and the warm electric pulse flowing through Wednesday's skin heating her cheeks now. 

It's 5 pm, she noted as she glanced at her phone. Show is at 7. She needed answers for this connection because her power never has been this confused.

She finished her hair with a fishtail side braid to keep it tamed on the windy night. Simple black long sleeved dress. She wore them tight like her mother now. 

Eye liner and brush of rich plum lipstick, her black lacquered nail correcting the line at the corner of her lip to precision in the mirror by her door. 

She blew out the candles, sending a thought out into the ether as if in prayer.

"Natura nihil frustra facit… ego sum servus tuus."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 title and the last line are latin, translated, " Nature does nothing in vain... I am your servant."


	2. tu serais comme le paradis à toucher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday came to the show on flyer to unravel a mystery. She got more than she expected in Lydia Deetz.

Lydia Deetz stared out and in at the full length plate glass of the Gallery, noting tiny half fingerprints left by haphazard cleaning. A leaf fluttered against the pane with a soft tinkling, breaking her concentration.

“Ready for the show?”

The owner Marcus rubbed his hands before putting them in his pockets. As well as he could, Lydia noted watching him in the reflection. A tight euro style cut cheap. His skinny trouser pocket is no better than a pair of women’s. 

Good thing her suit was a tailored men’s version, she mused as she pocketed a hand, ignoring her mobile vibrating against her fingers. 

“You only care about the buyers,” she sniffed as she took a sip of her tea. Strong steaming black blend with honey for all the conversation ahead. 

She’d met Marcus and his partner when she ventured into a more traditional medium. Painting shifted into a temporary obsession as her divorce finalized. She dubbed him as “the English mistake.” A cool, amicable “We don’t know the other exists” vibe found them both. 

Perhaps her stepmother’s money helped most, but to be honest, Delia’s ability to make the world listen to Lydia sealed their working relationship. She could hush any critic. 

But her words didn’t stop with critics and transferred her step daughter one too many times. Hard enough when you’re 21, but insufferable at 35. So back into photography she escaped.

And her step mother moved on, uncritical, supportive and wonderfully removed. Delia loved the weird stuff of Lydia’s more and sent buyers to her shows. 

Today the first full show by herself but confident her artistic merit stood on its own. But dead people's photos are still a niche market. She needed the work to exist more than for money. Something indistinct compelled her to it and certain clients, and she listened to the muse.

Marcus made his last checks, setting out refreshments at the back of the room. Bright stark walls, now filled with her black and white and color photos. The grayed old wood floor creaking all a bit cliche, but she owed him a favor when her final showing of paintings was a bust. 

“How cheap is the wine?” she called out.

“Just cheap enough, darling,” he yelled out, setting the cheese tray and checking his watch. “You ready?”

With a sardonic smile, she shrugged.

He lifted his mobile and set the music to some unoffending indie. They both glanced across the space to the door and as if on cue, the first guest arrived.

-:-

Lydia remarked to Marcus the flyers created a buzz by the moderate but steady stream of guests. It’d been 30 minutes, and they sold one of the cheaper photos. Marcus at ease now, and he settled into small talk. 

Lydia let her voice rest and adjusted a shifted canvas.

She glanced toward the door as it opened, spying a woman framed in black entering, and she fixed her stare. It wasn’t a complex aesthetic. Neat one-sided fishtail braid, and a simple knee-length dress, both jet black. Her eyes traveled the body curve, hugging with just the right amount of v-cut in the front. A prickling thought of jealousy snuck up. She’d never be able to pull this off. Her suit black with a high collar shirt business enough for the event. Sensible heels to finish it off. The Stevie Nicks witchy style her 30s worked into didn’t seem appropriate for this stark white environment. Well, to be fair, she mused, she’d always rocked that vibe.

But this woman? As if the room built itself around her. Lydia studied her glance at the first line of photos. Her face serene and then her brow folded. Guests stepped in front of her and Lydia shifted back a bit to try to not lose sight of the woman. They adjusted in and she nodded at their comment and shuffled once more to find her again. 

A twinge ran across her chest as one subject of her photos sidled up to the woman. 

When the man dared invade her space, Lydia re-positioned closer to listen in. 

“Bet you think you’re clever,” he said, leaning into Wednesday’s ear. 

Wednesday hardly moved a muscle in her face and did not blink or look at the man. She resisted swinging her hand out as if to swat a fly. “I bet you think I am too.”

He chuckled as he leaned back, taking a sip of wine. He smelled of two glasses at least, Wednesday thought. 

“You’re cute... in a Gothic sort of way.”

She smiled. A slow, one-sided lifting of the lips only. “Gothic? Oh dear, but I left my armor and sword at home, so how could you know?”

Lydia snickered to herself, her teeth snatching her lip back to not laugh out loud. 

“Hmm?”

“I’m a goth you said.” Wednesday now turned to him, cocking her head to the side. 

“Um Yeah I guess. It just—”

“So you see me as a 3rd century German warrior?”

Surely he’d think her odd and move on, both Wednesday and Lydia thought separately. 

But his smile only deepened, and her desire to strike him did as well. “Oh, I do like the banter I’m an author maybe you’ve heard of —”

“I don’t care.” 

He huffed, “You should.”

“Oh… Should I?”

“Well, it is climbing up the bestseller list as we speak. I just got a call—”

“You really aren’t getting the hint, are you?” She glared. 

He licked his lips, looking down and up in a way that almost compelled her to kick his shins. “You’re still talking to me...so—”

“Oh God glad you got here, babe!” Lydia shoved past him, smiling big. “Excuse me, let my girlfriend in thanks!”

Lydia locked in with a pair of hazel eyes, wide in shock as Lydia grabbed her hand and tugged her away with care.

Once a safe distance, Lydia dropped her grip. Wednesday stared at her fingers as every nerve ending pulsed with fire. 

“Sorry he’s an asshole,” Lydia groaned. “It’s my show, and I didn’t want you to get stuck with him all night…” she paused and couldn’t read the woman’s face, blank and still in shock, looking at her hand. “Unless I… I just fucked up, and you were into—”

Wednesday shook her head quickly as she drew a hard breath, rubbing her knuckles with her thumb. “No.. no, I wasn’t.”

“Cool… cool” Lydia nodded, and she dropped her stare. Those hazel eyes big enough to drown in, she mused. She noticed the show flyer in the woman’s other hand. 

“Oh, you have one of the flyers,” Lydia pointed at it and snickered ignoring how t caught in her throat. 

“The title is stupid, right? Pretentious slop,” Lydia smirked. “I owed the gallery owner a favor, so I let him name it… but you got that, I’m sure.” She wished she had a glass of wine, something to distract and also shut up her rambling. 

Wednesday whispered, “I—”

Lydia sighed, “Yeah, I… I’m sorry.” 

Wednesday’s mouth opened in surprise. 

Lydia shrugged, glancing down at those plum lips before returning her stare back up."I just… shit, it was too much, right? You don’t know me. Honestly, I just wanted you to enjoy the show without bullshit, yeah? So… wait, the douche is still looking at us."

Wednesday held her breath as the other woman shifted into her space, leaning down and planting a feathered kiss on Wednesday’s cheek near her ear, freezing her in place. 

Lydia whispered, “Just one more way to get rid of him, I hope you don’t mind.”

Lightning traveled down Wednesday’s neck to her fingers, her thoughts racing along with the current. _What magic is this?_

Wednesday croaked out the only question she could contemplate. “What… are... you?”

“Um… weird question and wording but I’m weird so… oh yeah that’s the answer I guess? I’m a strange woman who takes photos of dead people for art…?” Lydia’s eyebrow rose on the same side as her lips did. 

Wednesday stared with a frown, brow knitted in confusion as she cocked her head. 

“No, perhaps you missed my question of what—”

A finger pressed to Wednesday’s lips stopped the words sending fire spreading across her face in sparks. 

“Hey shhh. I gotta go talk to the money in the room,” Lydia held her finger there as she glanced around Wednesday."They always buy the highest priced piece.”

Lydia captured Wednesday’s gaze once more. “You stay though? Please.” 

Wednesday’s lips crackling under the planted finger, sitting like a lit match and her reserve holding to not back away. The other woman’s dark eyes nailed her in place. 

“We got wine over there.” Lydia nodded toward a long clothed table and dropped her finger. “Artisanal cheese the whole shebang. Enjoy and we’ll talk in a bit?”

Wednesday blinked and was alone again.

A lingering scent, like cloves, sage and smoke filled her nose and Wednesday breathed in deep, a ragged breath leaving her.

She could recall nothing that brought this unease before this. What was this?

Wednesday stepped to the wine pouring up whatever red was closest and downed half the glass, relishing a divergent burn.

She should’ve asked her mother instead of coming into this blind, she pondered. But a tiny uncertainty that Morticia might find out more than she desired wiggled its way in like a worm in dirt. As it often was with her mother, which Wednesday learned from her teenage years, she shared clairvoyance. It’s not from lack of support from her parents, or even that they meddled that gave Wednesday pause. No, they always struck a perfect balance. And yet every child wishes for their own private thoughts and hopes completely foreign to their loved ones. 

With a nibble at the Stilton, she walked down the line of images. Large and small, each with someone dead and one living person. Various settings. Some in a classic car. Others in libraries or gardens. 

“Memento Mori” she mumbled to herself. She glanced to her left and found the woman across the room talking. Animated, but yet stiff, like the suit wasn’t her usual attire. Hair short and choppy, a sweep of bang threatening to cover her dark eyes. They glittered like coal as she pointed at one piece. By all outward appearances, normal. 

But impossible. Nothing caused this electric sizzling, and no object she ever caressed brought forth heat. She always received cold memories like clouds of fog, rain dripping. This was sunlight scorching pavement on the summer day underneath bare feet. Dare she tiptoe across it?

The door there to her left and she could slip away. Leaving it to mystery. Her fingers rubbed the flyer between them, discharging the energy and wondering if it would go up in flame in her hand. A thought strayed to something even odder. She wanted to touch this woman more, to have her return the gesture to test the limits of this enigma. Not sexual...as such, but a foreign sensation still. Nonetheless, she desired it no matter what it led to. That dangerous musing quickened her pulse. 

Lydia, freed from duty, moved with purpose through a group back to the woman. A woman she needed a name for. 

“That one was pretty sad, really.” 

Wednesday kept her eyes fixed on the photo. A woman with a small purebred dog of some sort on her lap. The dog is alive. Then the intent struck her.

“These are possessions to be inherited by the alive person in the photo.”

Lydia grinned, capturing her bottom lips between her teeth. “Yeah… I mean, it’s morbid, but it’s such a fascinating subject.”

“These items were precious in some way?” Wednesday offered with a side glance. 

“Yes... but I also think about the next person they pass to. Like, does it remind them of death too? Passing on a curse.” 

Wednesday turned to study the woman, who stared at her own work intensely as she drawled out her thoughts. Older, mid-30s as bet she could guess. Older in how she holds her frame but in her eyes so much younger, a contrast Wednesday couldn’t manifest into a complete understanding.

“Memento mori,” Lydia sighed, folding her arms across her chest.

“Yes… like the Victorians practiced. Of course not only them but they had a special obsession with death,” Wednesday said plainly as she glanced at her.

Lydia locked her gaze on Wednesday, unsure if she enjoyed those hazel eyes or those lips more.

“You wanna get a drink after this?” 

A tingle returned to Wednesday but unconnected by touch, an entirely new sort of energy traveling up her spine. 

Wednesday dropped her stare, looking back at the wall, swallowing against her drying throat. “There are drinks here.”

Lydia stepped closer, soaking in the nearness. A hint of roses and an undefinable herbal scent filled her nose as she breathed in the surrounding air, “Yes... true, but we can’t really talk here.”

Wednesday lifted her gaze again. A man came up to Lydia, hand on her shoulder, and whispering something in her ear.

The lines on Lydia’s face, frowning a new study for Wednesday. An abstraction separate from her original research and unnerving.

When the man walked away, she spoke before Lydia could.

“I really shouldn’t. I have work and…” Her words trail off as Lydia’s lip lifted on side wistfully.

“I gotcha,” Lydia nodded.

“I… I love your photography and subject study. I specialize in antiquities, so it’s relevant,” Wednesday said as a consolation. 

“Thank you… I’m sorry I never got your name?” Lydia asked, her hand brushing against Wednesday to let someone pass by. 

“Wednesday. Wednesday Addams.” she half whispered. Whatever magic, it didn’t transfer through cloth. She understood this additional evidence, but its absence much more troubling in conclusion.

Lydia ran the name across in her mind, but only vague associations popped up. She needed more time with this dark, beautiful and odd woman who questioned what, not who, she was. A riddle yet to unravel. 

“Nice to meet you. How about this Wednesday Addams,” Lydia said with a half grin as she reached down, slipping paper from her grip, “I’ll give you my number and…” she paused as she produced a silver pen from her pocket and scrolled it under the show title. When done, she captured Wednesday’s stare unblinking and half lidded as she placed the flyer back into her hand, letting her finger brush Wednesday’s. “You message me if you wanna drink somewhere else sometime.” 

Lydia’s gaze longer than appropriate, but she marveled as she spied a quiver in Wednesday’s lip. Her heart jumped at the minuscule sign. But she played it cool, stepping backward and toward other guests, speaking words from one part of her brain while the other keenly aware of Wednesday walking out the door to her left. 

The cool air outside revived Wednesday’s breath but didn’t stop the thumping in her chest quick for comfort. Her finger sparked inside, setting the knuckle to an ache impossible to shake away. And in her hand the flyer burned like embers, unfading now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to mouse9 for beta work
> 
> I listened to "Uninvited" by Alanis Morrissette and "Can"t Take My Eyes Off You" cover by Ms. Lauryn Hill. 
> 
> what happens next? What will Wednesday do? We'll see :)


	3. Il faut qu'une porte soit ouverte ou fermée

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday left well enough alone but the mystery pursues her.

Swirling oils from the lemon congealing on her tea’s surface, and Wednesday stared mapping their streams. Her favorite tea shop foreign to her now thought every piece remained unaltered. Even the cottage witch bopping to some indie slop in her new set of stark white Beats headphones the same as before. The sharp under taste of this black tea underwhelming her palette and weak. It made little sense. The air is too clean. She wanted to blame the pastel princess type, but she sensed a lackadaisical attention to detail. Why did it smell of fresh snow around this space? 

“So did you go to the — “

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Fine,” the girl smirked. “I didn’t have time to go, so I was gonna ask about—”

Wednesday put a finger up to her lips, staring without a word, and the girl rolled her eyes and put her headphones back on to leave Wednesday to her musings. 

The card left in her bag, growing ragged around the edges, much like her nerves, a condition she assumed below her.

That woman. Blurred moments bleeding like a razor cut. The sharp bites of electricity of her touch and her skin worked its way into her formerly quiet thoughts. It remained on the flyer, tracing the number with her fingertip as if caressing a wired fence. Pops and sparks crackling underneath. 

And she liked it. Actually, she hated it. But it wasn’t a cold distaste. No, something warmer like curiosity sought despite all consequences. Her age no longer twenty-one, but a driving feeling in her blood worked its way in as if she were. Twenty-eight had shown all signs of a contented stability, unencumbered by yearning of any sort. Now that table turned. 

She’d never possessed the needed lust her parents share. 

Even her brother shared their proclivities with his own wife. Insufferable at holidays and she took solace of an understanding that she wasn’t unusual in her lack of want. In her youth, she’d forced the matter on herself. Its purpose to destroy the mystery and she vowed never to care about it again after. 

But the electrical fire this woman sent surging under her skin into uncharted territory. Mystical and beyond only some extension of dopamine. 

The number remained on the card and not in her phone. She pushed the tea away and texted the client she would be at the home shortly. Perhaps they’d reached mutual understanding, and she could explore the clock’s past. She slipped her velvet suit jacket back on over the dark silk cami, smoothing a wrinkle in the black pants as she stood and ignored the cottage witch’s wave.

Her taxi pulled up but an unfamiliar car in the drive. An Audi R8 in a flashy red. The newest model for the year, but basic. She learned high ends cars, briefly dating a rally circuit driver set up by one of her Aunt’s. Truly a relationship of convenience. He needed a beautiful woman for his press photos for the circuit and offered to take her all around Europe. She appreciated his palate in food, wine and hotels. He was a soft soul with the right bit of insanity, being a rally car driver after all. He attempted sweetness and romance, but she knew his lack of sexual interest not because of a shared sexuality. She was a front for another lover of his, a man on the same driving circuit. Eventually, after she tired of the travel and attention and the lie, she convinced him to be with the other man openly. All worked out well for them both, now married. And she had deep contacts in Europe for her antiquities work at its early stages. 

She slipped off her sunglasses once inside the house, adjusting to the light. Perhaps she would avoid the office today. She’d given too much energy to this woman already. And she proceeded upstairs into the right wing. 

Cataloging and pricing, she worked with haste and speed. But each object is as dead and cold as its previous owner. Her thoughts strayed, clouding the visions they offered only to fog. The clock, its faded gold leaf, it called to her like a siren across the house. 

She checked her phone for the hour and looked outside. Perhaps she could concede to its heralding for a moment before she left for the day. 

Her steps halted by the presence of a person in the library as she pushed through the door. The man from the gallery and she sighed. But she recalled he was the nephew meant to take possession of the clock. He had expensive taste in cars and clothes; she noted by the Burberry tweed suit. Perhaps he might want to part with it?

He glanced up and back and then back up again with a grin, sitting in the wingback chair at the fireplace

“Hey beautiful, couldn’t stay away?”  
  


She stepped to the desk, setting her notebook and bag down. “I’m the appraiser of your grandfather’s possessions. Or did your uncle not inform you?”  
  


He shrugged, “He informs me a lot. I ignore it.”

She glared, and he continued to smile. She grabbed her notebook up again and moved across the room, closing her eyes in irritation when he got up from his seat to follow her. _Cannot one man in this house leave me alone?_

“So you really with... her? Or was that just to push me away?”

He was correct. But she’d be damned if he knew it. 

“Yes, she is my girlfriend, as she said.”

“Ah… I don’t know, darling. It’s a weird… it’s weird.”

She huffed. “Yes, Can I work?”

“Sure…” he moved toward her still. “So you like artists?”

Men give the affirmative and then carry on with whatever they wished to do. He’ll pay for that indignation, she thought. 

She stepped to the sword collection, hung on under massive antique map. None permanently attached, she noted. 

“You know the origin of these?”  
  


“Yeah, I mean, if what Grandfather said was true,” he answered as he walked to the wall beside her. “This is from a famous Caribbean pirate, Charles Vane. Or at least that’s what Grandfather suggested. Loved that one when I was a kid.”

She glanced at a fencing foil, noting the tip uncovered.

“And this one?” She stepped forward, placing her hand on the thin blade, checking the sharpness as her fingers trailed to the silver hilt. 

“It’s of no interest so I have no interest.” He snickered as he positioned himself to step behind her, but it caught in a gasp in his throat as she skillfully put the tip of the sword at his chin and backed him up slow to butt against the desk.

“You are not a good person. Am I incorrect?” She stared, watching the panic grow in his eyes. 

He only gulped. 

“Do not get behind a woman in a house alone who is only here to work… and has a girlfriend.” 

He looked at the weapon, and she enjoyed the fear wide in his eyes. She knew then he knew it would cut him if he moved.

He sputtered, “Hey, I was just —”

The lightest of flicks and she stepped back. He frowned, then grabbed his chin, and glared at his hand with the line of blood on it. She smiled as she walked forward against putting the blade tip on Adam’s apple. 

“Your family is rich enough. Certainly you’ve heard of mine. I am an Addams… are you familiar? He frowned deeper, but she moved the weapon enough to allow him to nod.  
  
“So then you understand… are we done with our tête-à-tête? Yes, we are unless you want a closer shave. Oh, cat’s got your tongue? Or is it the sword at your throat? 

She let the tip nick him again as he gulped. 

  
  


“I’ll answer for you then. I’m sure you have rich boy things to go do, like spending daddy’s money, driving fast and getting out of speeding tickets. Maybe hit on some women much more impressed with a new bottom of the line R8 in a gaudy red.”

She turned her head and the sword “But you will leave me alone. Forever...one way or another.” 

He stared down at the foil, but she drew it back just as rapid as she’d put it to his skin. 

“Bye.”

It was his half jogged out the room and house the delighted her the most. Soon she heard the delicious roar of the R8 pulling away down the drive.

She sighed, considering placing the weapon up, ignoring the flood of its memories, but she decided perhaps laying it on the desk a safer option in case he returned.

The clock, how sad it would be in his possession soon. She placed a careful fingertip on it and the warmth surged through. 

A vision, several but the newest, most intriguing. The woman, holding the clock, marveling at its beauty just as curious as her of its story. She noted the placement of Lydia’s hands in the point of view and she recreated the grip. She felt the fire lick her palms as she closed her eyes.

She set it down with a thud.

“Enough… enough,” she heaved out her breath in a pant now. 

Once she slowed her heart, she pulled the card out of her bag, warm like a cup of tea in her fingers and her phone with the other hand.

She typed in the number, double checking each digit.

A precipice once again. But something undiscovered lay below it in the dark. 

_**Hi. It’s Wednesday Addams. Can we meet?** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title translated from french directly is "There can be no middle course." ("A door must be open or closed" is the meaning"


	4. c’est maintenant ou jamais

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia contemplates what Wednesday's text means

Sulfur filled her nose, setting the match to a wick. A vibration to near her other hand seized her attention. She stared until the heat engulfed her fingers and she cursed out the flame.

Lydia waited until the text notification disappeared to breathe.

It wasn’t the typical _Let’s start a chat after you hit on me_ message. 

Oddly desperate, and she couldn’t place her finger on why Wednesday would be so. 

She tried to date on and off, but it had been awhile. She didn’t think it changed that considerably and the woman, though younger, was not that much younger than her. Too young? No, she didn’t think so. 

She glared at her phone and unlocked it, glancing at the app marked by a “1.”

It was business only; she pondered. Perhaps that was the energy, which disappointed her, sitting in her heart like a tiny stone. But no, Wednesday hadn’t been that in person. Or had she?

“Or yes?” Lydia mumbled out to herself. “Ugh.”

She laid her head on the table as she slumped in the chair.

But those hazel eyes glanced at her half lidded as they blink through the dark of her arms, surrounding her face and captivating the only word for them. Her head shot up to break the illusion. 

Lydia put her phone to sleep again and stood, blowing out the very candle she just lit, and snatched up her keys and bag. She shoved a beanie on once outside, fixing the pixie cut bangs in the front in some style.

_A walk is all I need_ , she thought. Cars and rustling leaves mixed with trash, a different focus as her eyes followed her feet.

But the questions grew anyway.

She should reply… or wait? She should have done a lot of things, like not touching the woman, but it prompted her compulsion by some element, some magnetic force pulling her to Wednesday. Not sexual… well, perhaps a bit. But an uncharted emotion, surprising her that she had any of those left at the age of thirty-five. 

Speed wasn’t Lydia’s method. But there she was, kissing her on the cheek like an asshole. All to rescue her from… asshole. 

“Jesus fuck”, she whispered to herself as she crossed the street, shoving her hands in her pockets. 

But God Wednesday is gorgeous, a dark queen arriving to destroy the kingdom and Lydia would kneel, handing her the keys on a golden chain if allowed. Out of her league, to be honest. She’s an Addams, and Lydia knew enough vague details of the household for it to cause hesitation. 

Her step mom sold them a piece she remembered so Lydia texted her a question about them. Delia was at a loss to any details as well. She replied they were “old money, so old no one is even sure how they’ve earned it”, and she described them as “weird and delightful.” So many people involved with the Deetz family were weird that the word carried no weight. Same as saying someone was nice.

Antiquities much more sophisticated work than Lydia’s. Fascinating, though. Lydia turned into the park. She recalled her finger across the woman’s lips. How her breath caught. Overwhelmed, Lydia sat hard against a tree to a squat. 

So maybe it wasn’t just business.

She grunted as she stood up. “Get a grip… get a fucking grip, its just a girl”

It’s just been too long, that’s it. Beyond a couple casual flings where the attraction was a warm body and pleasant discussion, no one attracted her in much deeper than a solid 5 on the scale of interest.

But standing next to Wednesday, her skin charged with static electricity. Nerves and every chemical fired in the right order. Nothing awkward or off-putting and nothing cynical. All the moves she put on her seemed out of body. Was the sensation a small anomaly, or is she just more earnest with this woman? 

“There it is,” she huffed as she paused and sat on a bench hard. The blossom of hope in her chest crawling round each rib to an ache. 

Wednesday’s bright eyes gave her hesitation, as if Lydia took this path, it altered reality itself. But that’s too melodramatic. Something she might have considered at 15 to be so, but not what life taught her. 

Sure, she experienced all she had. Seen all she had. But that was years ago, well, minus when she visited her other parents. That wasn’t normal, but it was to her. Nothing else strange happened in her history.

Divorce a common trauma that she didn’t even count. Mistakes never appeared to stop her stride too long, all in line with her mindset with life and everything. Her ex husband didn’t wish to have a relationship and eventually she didn’t need to either. She missed the London house, nevertheless. A neat little garden in the back, all the galleries, friends, gloomy weather. 

Problem with Wednesday, though, Lydia realized she’d fall swiftly. That’s why this one scared her, because something darker laid underneath the surface. Something unnatural. Or even perhaps, too natural.

She checked her phone for the time and answered a brief text from a friend about how she was doing. But her thoughts strayed to Wednesday without pause, and she jumped up from her seat to push them away. They returned anyway, and she stopped in her tracks. 

Eyes shut tight, she conjured the full picture of the woman in her mind required once more for assessment of her feelings. The curves built, along with the long dark hair, now unbraided. The same tight black dress. Dark lips parted only just so, with hazel eyes half closed. A slender hand ghosting down her side as Wednesday nods, as if calling her in.

The sunlight pushed past the treeline, and Lydia opened her eyes at the sudden warmth across her face, thanking it for its distraction. 

She paused, a shallow breath held, pressing on her rib cage as she clicked on the message from Wednesday. “Now or never,” she declared as she typed. 

_**Yes. Tonight at 7? You name the place.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be longer and key to their story
> 
> title is french for "Its not or never"

**Author's Note:**

> So this started because @_imperialpurple on twitter suggested it and here we are. Friend Jen and Rachel encouraged and added to it.
> 
> No idea how any chapters. Just hang with me on this.
> 
> Title is a common French phrase literally translated “to be struck by lightening” but is used to mean “to fall in love at first sight”


End file.
